


Cogs And Sprockets

by DictionaryWrites



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short AU: Q runs a sex shop. Mature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cogs And Sprockets

 “Ms Moneypenny, I did have _need_ of them.” says Bond, not unreasonably, in his own mind. Eve raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.

“Did you have need of ones with a police issue number on them?” Bond shrugs his shoulders, and Eve sighs as she looks at the (admittedly awfully thick) pile of papers in front of her. Bond had not been _arrested_ , but security had not been especially pleased about the set of cuffs in his bag, pilfered several years ago from a terribly pretty young police inspector. “Take this.” She says firmly, and she holds out a black business card.

Bond takes it carefully, glancing over the white, swirling font. _Cogs and Sprocket_ _s_ _,_ on Kent Street, and he frowns slightly. It has nothing more, though, no name or contact number; simply an address. On the back is a carefully embossed series of cogs in work. “And what is this for? Watches?”

“Just go and ask for a set of cuffs that you can say is for a honeymoon, Bond.” Moneypenny says tiredly. “I'll see you later.”

\---

Bond walks quickly enough down the road, one hand in his pocket; it's bloody cold outside, but he hasn't bothered with getting himself a coat just for this. _Cogs and Sprockets_ is written in gold text over a window, but it doesn't seem like the sort of place he might buy himself a pair of handcuffs.

There is a display in the window, and a stretch of red crushed velvet has been laid out over the shelves; on these are displayed some sort of golden implement that's pyramid shaped, a set of old books that look positively antique, and a set of chains in a bowl. While Bond doesn't mind _paying_ for quality, it does seem somewhat out of his price range.

He steps inside, listening to the tinkle of the bell over his head as he does so, and is somewhat shocked by what he sees. Immediately in front of the door is a six shelf glass cabinet, within which two or three dozen dildos are neatly organized with hand-written labels placed at their bases. To his right are two bookshelves against the wall, with dozens of manuals and erotic novels apparently organized by subject for the non-fiction and by author for the fiction.

“Good God.” Bond mutters, and he closes the door behind him.

“Ah, Mr Bond.” comes a man's voice, and Bond turns his head, regarding a young thing stood behind a desk with an old, gold-burnished till beside him. What, he sells sex toys with an antique flair to the shop? “I've been expecting you.” Oh, but he is _young_. He doesn't even look out of his 20s, and although he's certainly an attractive creature, Bond is somewhat surprised to see him working _here._

He's wearing a brown _cardigan_ , after all.

“Hello.” Bond murmurs, and he takes a step forwards, looking around at the other cabinets; on display are varied toys and jewellery, and in the next section of the room numerous costumes and suits seem to be on show amongst lingerie and larger toys. “I-”

“Not what you expected?” The man asks with a raised eyebrow, and he adjusts his spectacles. “It used to be an antique shop, and while I appreciated the _aesthetic_ , the subject bored me. My name is Q.”

“Q?” Bond repeats, and he raises an eyebrow. “That's your real name?”

“That's what you'll call me.” comes the crisp and stern response, and _oh_ , that commanding tone rushes through Bond and affects him with absolute delight. “You're here for a pair of cuffs, hmm?”

“Handcuffs, yes.” Bond says, and he looks behind Q; there's a window with the blind pulled down, and on the black board to his right are... _Commission_ prices. What, Bond wonders, does Q create? Custom costumes? Art?

Q stands out from behind the desk and gestures for Bond to follow him: his arse looks positively tremendous in the otherwise unflattering black trousers. He dresses like a grandfather, and Bond can't help but wonder why. In sex shops he's entered in the past, the usual proprietor has been some barely-dressed creature with a lip ring.

“Here we are.” Q says, and he gestures to a glass fronted shelf up on the wall, with a series of cuffs and restraints neatly hung on small pins. “Now, I'm guessing you don't want any feathers or _fur_ ; though these are leather cuffs with a silken lining to reduce chafing. These are standard leather _lined_ with a longer chain available, here they're more leather _manacles_ as opposed to cuffs, but they're usually far more comfortable and further flexible, as it more. Handcuffs, much as they carry a pleasant theme, do lack something where give is concerned.”

“That's a personal opinion?” Bond asks, and something about the brisk and no-nonsense way the other man talks about the subject is causing Bond to be very interested in having those old-fashioned clothes coming off.

“Formed from experience, yes.” Q says crisply, and he turns his head to look up at Bond, looking him up and down with a little smirk before murmuring, “Would you like a demonstration, Mr Bond?”

“I would _love_ one.” Bond murmurs.

“Too bad: I'm on duty.” Q says lightly, and he gestures to the cabinet. _Tease._ “Are any of these sufficient?”

“I'm a man of _simple_ tastes.” Bond murmurs in a light and pleasant tone, and he points at the simplest pair, metal with a leather brace to prevent the worst part of the chafing. Q chuckles, crossing the room and disappearing into a cupboard before returning with a box in hand. “Are you?”

“Off-duty? No. I actually tend towards elaboration. The simplest things can be quite satisfying when done by an experienced partner, but I'm a believer in _modernity._ ” Bond watches the other as he slips behind the desk again. “Can I get you anything else, Mr Bond?”

“Your phone number?” Q's lip twitches, and then he holds out his hand. Bond glances at it, thoughtful, and then puts his phone in the younger man's hand. Q taps in his number in a perfunctory fashion, and then he says, “I'm off at six.”

“I'll be back.” Bond murmurs, and is about to let the other ring up the cuffs, but his gaze is drawn to the blackboard once more. “If I might ask- commissions...?” Q leans under the desk and pulls out an A3 art book, opening it up for Bond's view.

Bond _stares_.

The first spread of pages is a set of sketched out dynamics for some sort of _intensely_ intricate fucking machine, some sort of tremendous device that would put a bloody Sybian to shame. Q turns the page, showing a cog and gear themed bed with manacles at the posts and some sort of _uncomfortable_ looking device at the footboard. Another page; six different designs for underwear with hidden vibrators and toys within.

“I cater for _specialist_ concerns.” Q says sweetly, and he smiles. “Before you call me, Bond, you ought know; I really am one for _dominating_ in the bedroom. Shan't be a problem, shall it?”

“With a book like _this_?” Bond asks, and his voice is hoarser than usual, half-cracked despite himself as he considers the other man standing over him with a flogger in his hand. “Oh, I should think you're _more_ than qualified. Q.”

“Good.” He murmurs, and he closes the book shut, moving to enter the information from the back of the cuffs into a hand-kept ledger – so _old-fashioned,_ and such lovely handwriting as well _._ Bond wouldn't mind having those lovely fingers dragging a pen over his skin. “I shall see you at 6:05, then.”

“Yes, _sir._ ” Q smirks.

“Oh, Moneypenny was _right_ about you.” He says, and Bond arches an eyebrow as Q drops his purchase into a brown bag.

“Is that so? What did she say?”

“That if I wanted to take that smug look off your face I'd have to slap it off.” Bond's mouth goes dry. “Can't say I mind much.”

“Nor do I.” Bond manages, and he takes his leave, glancing at his watch. Three _hours_ , God, but it's most certainly an _exciting_ idea all the same.

Bond just cannot _wait._


End file.
